


Colorado

by mytimehaspassed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abduction, Abuse, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2010-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:12:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Those nights you wake up in seedy motel rooms, little Sammy by your side, tucked in beneath the covers and undisturbed as you struggle, as you scream, your hoarse voice and your father’s strong hands gripping you so hard it feels like you’ll never be able to escape his grasp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colorado

**COLORADO**  
SUPERNATURAL  
Dean/OMC; Sam/Dean  
 **WARNINGS** : AU; underage sex; non-consenual sex; abuse; kidnapping

  
Those nights you wake up in seedy motel rooms, little Sammy by your side, tucked in beneath the covers and undisturbed as you struggle, as you scream, your hoarse voice and your father’s strong hands gripping you so hard it feels like you’ll never be able to escape his grasp. Those nights, the scratch of your father’s stubble against your cheek, the flickering blue light from the muted TV, the smell of cigarette smoke on your father’s clothes, this wave that comes in hazy plumes from the crack in the bathroom door where’s he left his cigarette burning on the porcelain of the sink, those nights, you wake up from dreams you can’t remember. Those nights, you wake up with the sound of screams in your head that you won’t ever be able to forget.

This is when it all started, all these years after your mom died, all these years on the run from some demon you never had a hard time believing in, that your father had been hunting for what seems like ever, this is when all of this really came together. Those nights, your father gives you sips from his flask to calm you, the whiskey that burns your throat, that tears it’s way down, and it only takes a few moments for the tears to stop rolling down your cheeks, for your breath to regulate. Your heart beating against your chest, your father never asks what you dreamt about, never asks if you’re okay, but, even at ten years old, you’re glad. Even with the forty-five he tucks underneath your pillow, the cross he gives you to hold during the night, your mother’s old rosary, even with his wary glances, you just want to forget about all of this.

Those nights, you fall back asleep to the sound of your father’s voice. The smoke that drifts through the crack in the bathroom door, it shines blue in the light of the TV, shines misty, and your father sings something soft. His gruff voice, it’s Bob Dylan or Johnny Cash or something, something with enough rhythm for your father to tap his foot, to drum his fingers across the sink. Your father and the feel of his stubble on your skin, the scratch of it, his voice, sometimes you think you’re glad that your mom died in that fire. Those nights, hours before the sun rises above those seedy motel rooms, all those hunting grounds, sometimes you think you’re glad that the demon killed your mother because otherwise you would never end up here, little Sammy curled against your side, gripping your shirt tight, and your father’s voice washing over you through the cigarette smoke.

All those bad dreams, those nightmares you’ll never remember, those screams you’ll always want to forget, those nights you wake up, sometimes you think you’re glad your mom died because then you’d never get your father all to yourself.

***

Your daddy always told you to stay away from strangers. It’s kind of easy, what with moving from motel room to motel room, cruising all these backcountry roads on this never-ending road trip, this quest for your father’s own personal holy grail, what with never staying in one place for too long. It’s kind of easy to shy away from adults, to stick with Sammy, to stay by your father’s side. Your daddy, he tells you not to talk to strangers, not to take candy, not to look for any lost puppies, your daddy, he says that all these men, all these strangers, they’re no worse than the demons you hunt at night, they’re no worse than any of the monsters you’ve ever come across.

Your daddy, his hands gripping your little shoulders, his face so close to yours, he tells you not to trust anyone but him and Sam, not to let anyone take you anywhere, no matter what. And you try to be a good boy, you try to follow his rules, you try to do everything your father says, but sometimes it just gets so hard.

His badge is bright and shiny, golden yellow glinting in the noonday sun, and maybe if you were a little older, maybe if you weren’t so transfixed on his badge, this feeling of awe, maybe you would have known. Maybe you would have been more careful. His uniform is a dark blue, the kind that police officers wear, and you’re only a little disappointed because what you really want to be is a firefighter, those big suits, that bright red fire truck, but, hey, cops are pretty cool, too. His bright smile, he says, Hey, little guy. The black baseball cap on his head, he says, Why don’t you take a ride with me?

And, really, you tried, you tried to resist, to say that you were busy, that you couldn’t just leave, that you were only out getting snacks from the vending machine while your father gave little Sammy a bath, but it’s just so hard, it’s just too much. His white teeth, he says, You ever play with a siren before? The way his cheeks dimple, he says, You can even shine the lights, too. His thumb jerking back to the car right there, parked in the space next to your father’s Impala, and you just can’t help the little breathy exclamation that comes from your mouth, “Cool,” as he puts a hand on your shoulder and guides you to the police car. You just can’t help the excitement that lights up your face.

His sweet-smelling cologne, the way he smiles at you, the way he helps you up into the passenger seat, lets you play with all the buttons, he says, You thirsty? His hand reaching into the backseat for a box of apple juice, straw already poked into the tiny little hole, he hands it to you and says, Drink up, little man.

***

In your junior year of high school, your family spends a two-month stint in Michigan, hunting down a poltergeist with a penchant for haunting light houses, hunting down water spirits that just can’t seem to leave the Great Lakes alone. Your father leaves during the day, takes the Impala and his boxes of shotgun shells, the full gun cage he keeps in the back, the vials of rock salt, and he comes back smelling like burnt gunpowder, like salt water. He comes back with fresh bruises, welts that have yet to heal, scratches that bleed red against his black t-shirt, he comes back with the biggest grin on his face, that stale smell of sweat on his skin. Sammy’s at that age where he’s just started to learn what the word rebellion means, how he can get your father mad enough to knock back Jack Daniels like water, to slam the motel room door so hard the front desk has to call and give you the trademark speech about fines for damage. Sammy’s at that age where he reads more books than porn, where he completes more homework assignments than hunts.

Sammy and the normal life he dreams of, if you weren’t so fucked up yourself, you’d try your hardest to give it to him, to let him go. You and all your problems, if you weren’t in this too deep, if you didn’t love this job as much as your father did, even more, then just maybe you could give Sam everything he’s always wanted, maybe you could just make all his dreams come true.

In your junior year of high school, you date a pre-med student at the local college, a girl with chestnut hair that hangs in ringlets above her shoulders, a girl with a beautiful smile, soft pale skin, a girl with enough curves to choke a horse. She works in a pharmacy to pay for her modest apartment on Main Street, a dumpy place that she only uses for sleep and sex, and where she lays you down on the bed and hikes up her skirt, runs her fingers over your abs, over your biceps. Where she calls you Robert, her eyes rolling back, her neck arching long, arching straight, where she calls you Michael, scratching her nails on your chest, and you guess these are the guys that have come before you, these are the guys that have left her behind, but it’s not like you’re too worried about it. It’s not like you’re committed or anything.

It’s easy to charm her into giving up a prescription pad full of signatures, something you can fill in later, something you need to support the habit. It’s easy because she’ll do anything for your touch, she’ll do anything for your hands on her skin, unbuttoning her blouse, unhooking her bra, she’ll do anything if you just reach that spot, and, oh, yeah, that one right there. It’s easy because you’re desperate and, on some level, she just wants to be the one to ease that pain.

She just wants to be your hero.

She doesn’t ask what it’s for, her post-coital sleepy eyes, her reach for you, wrapping your arm around her shoulders, curling into your chest just like little Sammy used to do, she doesn’t ask because she doesn’t care. At least not as long as she gets what she wants out of the deal, not as long as she’s satisfied. She doesn’t ask what it’s for, but, hey, if she did, you’d have no qualms about telling her, really. Because, besides the whole cops and robbers routine your family pulls, saving people the wrong way, the easy way, besides all the illegal stunts you pull, the credit card scams, the poker games, your daddy always told you to be honest. You and all your goddamn problems, your daddy always told you to come clean at the right times, to never lose sight of the truth.

This girl, she’s so much like you that it hurts. The one that got left behind, the one that lost her sanity along the way, lost her dignity, she’s so much like you that you suspect she doesn’t need to ask, that she doesn’t need to know why because she’s right there with you. She knows exactly what you’re gonna do. Sleeping with men because it’s the right thing to do, sleeping with all these men because she never really got over that first one, Jesus, maybe you’re just so narcissistic that you can’t even fuck a girl unless she resembles you. Maybe you’re just so fucked up that you can’t even get out of this what you want to, that you can’t even have a good time anymore, not without your past getting in the way.

Those nights you father comes home smelling like salt water, like ashes and stale sweat, all those bruises on his arms, his face, the welts that creep up his neck, those nights Sammy drives him to drink, you can’t even picture what normal should look like. All of Sam’s dreams, the life he’s looking forward to when he finally has enough and leaves the both of you, when he finally comes to his senses and gets the fuck out of dodge, you can’t even imagine what that’ll feel like. Those nights you climb into bed with your pre-med student, this girl who should know better, this girl who has so much potential, everything you’ve never had, those nights you palm bottles of Prozac, Zoloft, these tiny pills, all this Wellbutrin, all this Trazodone. This girl and her bedroom eyes, her sweet-smelling hair, well, maybe she should have just given up long ago.

Fucking guys to prove that she can, that she’s better, that she’s where she’s supposed to be, it’s all way too close to home, it’s all just way too familiar. Those nights your father comes home with alcohol on his breath, the bars he’s been kicked out of, all those women he’s struck out on, those nights your daddy comes to lay beside you in your bed, to stroke your hair, to pull your covers up, this is all just bullshit because nobody’s moved the fuck on. Nobody’s proven that they’ve forgotten, your father and his addiction, the half empty bottles of vodka and whiskey, all those bruises, little Sammy and his distance from you, his rebellion, nobody’s shown you that it’s all done with, that it won’t stay here forever. This ghost that lingers, this elephant in the room, nobody’s said that it’s okay yet.

You and all your fucking problems, nobody’s ever told you that everything will be alright.

***

Your daddy always taught you to stick up for yourself. If it wasn’t defending little Sammy, if it wasn’t fighting some monster or ghost or demon of the week, if it was just you here in this dirty little basement, the cement that feels like ice against your bare feet, the rope that burns your wrists, if it was just you and this guy, this stranger, well, your daddy must have taught you something that would help. The duct tape that pulls at your mouth, there’s blood dripping into your eyes from some wound on your forehead, some cut, and all you can hear is your heavy breathing, your beating heart. All you can hear is the sound of his voice, slow, soft, all you can hear is the tap of his shoes against the floor as he makes his way towards you.

He’s saying, “Don’t be scared, honey,” his hands reaching for you, his wide smile, he saying, “Don’t be afraid, Dean. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

His dimpled cheeks, well, the police uniform is gone now, the black hat, the shiny badge, and, boy, are you feeling dumb. Boy are you feeling stupid now that you know what’s really going on, what’s gonna happen. Your daddy told you about this, your daddy and his stubble scratching against your skin, the big, strong hands as they grip you tight, as they make you listen, your daddy always told you about strangers. He’s not a hero, this man, this guy here with his scary basement, his tricks, he’s not a police officer, he’s not one of the good guys. And, boy, your daddy must be worried now.

This man, this stranger, he’s saying, “C’mere, baby, don’t be frightened. I won’t hurt you.” His big hands, his muscled arms, you can tell that he’s lying, from the look on his face, from the way that he smiles, you can tell that he’s just using another one of his tricks and you step one two three steps backward, trying desperately to avoid his grasp. He’s saying, “Aww, don’t be shy, sweetheart.” The twinkle in his eyes, he’s saying, “Don’t make this harder.”

Your daddy, he always told you to fight for as long as you can, to never give up, to always stick up for yourself. This man getting closer, this man reaching towards you, this isn’t going to end well, this isn’t going to turn out in your favor, this man and the way he looks at you, with this hunger in his eyes, there must have been something your daddy taught you. There must have been some lesson that could help you out of this, that could buy you some time, at least. Your shuffling feet against the cement floor, the tears that run down your cheeks, the blood that sticks to your eyelashes, there must be some way out of here, there must be something.

He’s saying, “Come back to me, baby, come back over here.” This man and the knife he grabs from his belt, it’s one clean flip to open, shiny silver under the low-lit phosphorescents, and maybe you’re just a little out of your league here. The way your knees tremble inside your jeans, the way your stomach flips with the terror you feel, maybe you’re just a little too scared to put up a decent fight, and he’s saying, “Just come back here, honey, and it won’t last long.” His pretty smile, the way your knuckles strain white against the bindings, the way your eyes widen as your tears start to fall faster, he’s saying, “Just calm down and everything will be fine.”

His fingers digging into your shoulder blade, his hands on you, his ferocious smile, he’s saying, “Don’t worry, this will all be over soon.”

***

You find them one day in the Impala. The brightly colored shoe box, one of your old art projects, the cardboard covered in bits of construction paper, gold stars and sparkles and little spots of dried glue that stick to your hands as you lift it from underneath the gun rack in the trunk. It was wedged back there, in between the shotguns and cases of rock salt, the knife collection your father has always been proud of, the box partially hidden by one of dad’s old shirts, now dirty and speckled with gun oil.

You know what’s inside before you even open it. You remember your father tucking the pictures into this very same box that night you came home, that night he saved you, remember him saying that he was going to burn it in the backyard of the motel, somewhere deep inside the woods, and that you shouldn’t worry now, that you shouldn’t be scared. His shaky hands on your shoulders, that musk smell, the dried tears on his face from when you caught him crying in the bathroom, he says you shouldn’t be afraid anymore because you were here with him, because you were safe.

You remember the careful grasp as he held those pictures, the way he touched them, as if it was little Sammy in his arms, as if it was a baby instead. You remember his sad eyes, that night, those pictures, you remember the way his fingers trembled.

The car keys digging into your palm as your hands curl into fists, you’re not so sure if you’re glad he kept them or not. And, to be honest, you’re not so sure if you care.

Your father tells you later that they came in a plain brown envelope the morning after you disappeared, that this fucker was taunting him, that he knew what your family was, that he knew who your father was. Your father tells you later that his hands shook when he opened it, when he took the pictures out and turned them over one by one. Your father tells you later that he almost didn’t make it to the bathroom before he threw up; the anxious tumbling of his stomach, the way little Sammy just cried and called out your name, over and over, reaching his chubby arms up to be held.

And there you are, dead eyes and numb face, the way the camera looks at you, there’s no hiding what’s happened. There’s no hiding what he’s done to you. There’s blood on your forehead, caked around the tiny cut, but even he told you that head wounds bleed more than they should, even he told you that it was nothing, soft words as he rubbed on the antiseptic, fingers smoothing out the wrinkled Spiderman Band-Aid, even he told you that you were just being a baby. There are bruises on your face, thumbprints from when he pressed too hard, abrasions from the rope he used, from the gag he tied around your mouth. These pictures, there are red marks creeping up your neck, dotting your naked chest, from where he lowered his mouth, from where his lips touched you, there are hand prints circling your arms. It’s not like it took much to hold you down, even at nine years old, even with all your training, your father and his sad eyes, you never had the heart to tell him that you just didn’t put up much of a fight to begin with. Your father and all the lessons he taught you, all those ways of protecting yourself, all those ways of standing up, you just never had the heart to tell him that you failed, that you never should have tried in the first place.

And there you are, swollen lips, your mouth looks bee stung, red from where he kissed you, over and over, red from what he made you do to him. There you are, lifeless as he holds you, his arms stretching wide, stretching big over yours, it was a hard angle to produce, balancing you, balancing the camera, this picture here, this took several tries before it was perfect. Before it was good enough to send to your father. This one here, the Polaroid you hold in your hands, dirty, covered in dust, this was his favorite. The way his mouth is in the corner, smiling, his dimpled cheeks, the way your eyes look so big, tear tracks through the filth on your face, the way your mouth curves downward, he told you that you looked beautiful. The way his eyes lit up, he told you that you looked so angelic, his hands on you, you looked perfect.

To be honest, you’re not so sure why you don’t just burn them now. This cardboard box and it’s smiley face made out of macaroni, the stick figures that are supposed to represent your family, you’re just not sure why you don’t destroy all of this, all these pictures, your past, all your fucking problems, you’re not sure why you don’t just give this up. Why you don’t just forget about all of this.

These pictures, you place them back in the box carefully, delicately, careful not to rip one of them, place them back in the box and underneath the gun cage, out of sight. You don’t know why your father has kept them all these years, why he feels the need to keep this daily reminder around in the trunk of his car, your past, all your fucking problems, you don’t know why he feels the need to torment himself any longer, but you’re not getting involved. These pictures, this isn’t you anymore, that boy there, with his bruises and his dead eyes, that boy there encircled in those strong arms, those big hands, that isn’t you. That boy there, his bee stung lips, kissed hard enough to swell, that boy and his naked chest, you may have the stigma, you may have the scars to prove it, but, to be honest, that will never be you. These pictures, well, out of sight, out of mind.

And to be honest, well, that boy there, that will never be you.

***

Your daddy always told you to be aware of your location. This dirty basement, this cold cement floor, your daddy always told you to notice every possible exit, to memorize every twist and turn. It’s not like this is the hardest place you’ve ever had to map out, the rusted mattress in the corner, the water spigot jutting out of the floor, there are plenty of nails and copper wires sticking out to snag the bottoms of your feet on, but that’s about it. The vents that hang from the ceiling, your naked chest, your tattered jeans, you’ve been cold ever since he laid you down here and promised to come back with water, with candy. You’ve been cold ever since you left your family, ever since he took you away from them.

Your daddy and the guns he taught you to use, you dream about finding one. You dream about nine millimeters and forty-fives, you dream about shotguns, double-fisted barrels and shells the size of rats, you dream about pumping round after round into this man, this stranger. You and your little blanket, torn and barely able to cover your body, you dream about killing him. You dream about blowing him away.

This man and his basement, this man and his pretty smile, his pretty face, he brings you pieces of chocolate cake, little bits of taffy stuck to paper, curved into the shape of smiley faces, he brings you Coke and Pop Rocks, tells you be careful, you don’t want to explode. His white teeth, the dimples in his cheeks, he brings you lollipops and watches you eat them, tells you to slow down, tells you to keep licking, like that, that’s good. Says, “This is good practice, buddy.” The way his eyes light up, the way his hunger shows, his hands reaching for you, his fingers stroking your soft arms, he winks and says, “You’ll thank me when you’re older.”

This man and his love for you, this stranger here, he watches your tongue go in and out of your mouth, watches your fingers tighten on the stick, your knuckles straining, your nails turning white, and he feels so hot next to you. His hands, his arms around your waist, his chest pressed against yours, he feels like he’s burning up, his mouth so close to yours, he feels like he’s on fire.

Your daddy comes that night. You’re asleep at first, curled inside this man’s arms, curled against his naked body because you’re just so cold, your shoulders shaking with silent tears, your teeth chattering inside your mouth, you’re just so cold and he’s just so warm, so hot against your skin. You’re asleep at first, so you don’t hear the click of the hammer in your father’s gun, the bullet that slides into place, ready. You don’t hear your father’s heavy breathing, the little hitch as he stops himself from crying out, you don’t hear the pain in his voice when he tells the man to back up, to back away, slowly. Your father and his gun, he watches the man tighten his arms around you, watches you open your eyes, dead, lifeless, watches and says, “Move the fuck back and don’t you even think about touching him.” His gravel voice, his steady hand, you’ve never seen him like this before, his mouth gritting out words, “Move back or I’ll shoot you in the fucking head,” you’ve never seen him this cold. You’ve never seen him this angry.

Later you’ll find out that this man wasn’t that hard to find, the six days you spend with him, the six nights you lie in his arms in this dirty basement, the world that goes on above your heads, the world that keeps on turning, this man wasn’t too good at hiding his tracks. For a child molester, for a pedophile with a penchant of snatching children from their motel rooms, he wasn’t that good at cleaning up his paper trail. Later, you’ll find out that your father knew this man, an old Marine Corp buddy, a friend that figured he’d just show up and surprise your father one day, just show up, but took one look at you and decided you were worth the risk. You were worth whatever he had coming. Later, you’ll find out that as your father gripped you to him, one hand around your naked chest, one handprint on top of all the others, later you’ll find out that your father had no intention of letting him go, that he had no intention of involving the police.

Your daddy and all his lessons, all his advice, he taught you how to survive, he taught you how to stand up for yourself, how to last as long as you did. Your daddy and his hand wrapped around this gun, his finger on the trigger, his calm voice and the way this man just looks at you, like he’s still hungry, like he’ll never be sorry for what he’s done, later your daddy will teach you how to kill. All his guns, all his knives, later your daddy will teach you how to clean up the crime scene, to wipe down prints and scrape under fingernails for DNA, to wash the body, the carpet, this dirty basement floor, to wash all of this cold cement. Later your daddy will teach you how to bury a body so no one will ever find it.

This man and his pretty face, the tattoos on his arms just like your father’s, the black ink, he cries and says he’ll do anything. His hands outstretched, those same hands that left bruises on your body, those same hands that touched you, that mouth and the marks he’s left all over you, he’s saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over again. Those tears that wash his face, that clear his mouth of the taste of your skin, that leave tracks on his dirty cheeks, he’s saying, “Please forgive me.”

He’s saying, “I’ll do anything.”

You and your daddy, his strong arm around you, the way he’s never gonna let you go again, the way he’ll never let you out of his sight, your daddy aims the gun towards the man, towards the stranger, aims the gun straight at his forehead and says, “It will never be enough.” Your daddy and his gravel voice, the way he grits his teeth, the man just cries and cries.

And your daddy’s calm voice, the way he tightens his hold on you, he says, “You won’t ever be sorry.”

***

The first time Sam kisses you, he’s sixteen years old. His first post-date jitters, the way he smiles and smiles, like he’s high, like he’s on some kind of an adrenaline rush, you ask him if he got laid at all, and he frowns for a second and then rolls his eyes. It’s a quick one two three peck on the lips, something that has you breathing in really fast, something that has you reeling back, because no guy has ever kissed you since that night, since those six days you spent in that dirty basement. You’ve never given another man permission to touch you ever since that night. But it’s quick, it’s something that Sam gives no thought about, because he’s just doing it to be playful, to tell you that he’s grateful you even care, and you really shouldn’t be acting like this. Sam and his furrowing brow, he looks at you and says, “What?” but as soon as the word meets his lips he gets it. He remembers.

It’s nothing he actually remembers, of course, he was too young to understand, too young to know why you acted funny all those months later, why your father never let you out of his sight. It’s nothing he can actually recall, but he knows the story, gathered together bits and pieces from you, from your father, and little Sammy’s smart enough to figure it all out. His widening eyes, he’s saying, “Oh,” his hand reaching towards you, but you’re jerking back, you’re escaping his grasp, and he’s saying, “Dean.” He’s saying, “I’m sorry.”

And all you can think of is, “I’m not a faggot.” This quick shock to the system, this feeling of his skin on yours, that man, he’s nothing like Sammy, nothing like your sweet little brother, but he might as well be, they might as well be the same person from the way you’re acting, from the way your skin crawls from his touch. Sammy and his hurt face, he’s trying to tell you that it’s not like that, that he didn’t really mean it, but it’s not coming out right and you’re just getting more anxious, you’re just getting angrier. Your big mouth, you’re saying, “You might be a fucking fairy, but, contrary to what you think, I’m not.” Your chest tightening, your teeth biting down so hard you think they might shatter, you’re breathing hard, breathing heavy, and you just want so much to hit him right now, to punch Sammy in the fucking face if that would even get the point across. Your hands curling into fists, you can feel your fingernails biting into your palms, and you’re saying, “Don’t ever touch me again.”

The first time Sam kisses you, your tingling lips and the way he just stares at you, those tears in his eyes, you go down to the local bar to race your father into a bender. You pick up three, maybe four girls in the span of six hours, still raring to go as you leave the last one, sneaking out the front door with shoes in hand, and, hey, this might be just to show Sammy that you can, with the smell of sex all over you, lipstick smears and traces of perfume, but it’s not like you’re not enjoying yourself. This might be just to show Sammy that at least you’re willing to give it a try, to stick your in dick in as much pussy as you can find to wipe off that desire every time you see a muscled man with tattoos, every time you see a guy with dimples on his cheeks, but at least you’re not just giving up. This might be just to show Sammy that you’re fine, that you’re over it, but it’s not like you’re not having fun doing it.

This might be just to show Sam that you’re not like him, you haven’t given up, that you’re fucking normal, that you’ll never resort to snatching kids off the street because you can’t cope, but it’s not like it’s all going to waste.

The first time Sam kisses you, you get so drunk that you forget what you’re trying to tell him, what you’re trying to show him you can do. You get so drunk that you forget about your own little promise to yourself, that you forget about your own little façade, and you let a man take you home. A boy, really, maybe a year or two older than Sam, but you’re the weak one here, twenty years old and unable to hold your liquor, swaying in his arms as he guides you to his place, and you’re saying, “I don’t normally do this.” Your sweet smile, the way you bury your face in his neck and breathe in, that musk smell, that sweet-smelling cologne, you’re saying, “I’m so damaged that I don’t usually let myself do this.” Let a guy take you home, fuck you. Let a guy, this man, this stranger, let him touch you.

His strong arms around you, he says, “It’s alright, baby.” His green eyes and there’s this sweeping feeling of desire that comes over you, and it’s just so strong, so powerful, and he’s saying, “Don’t worry, you’re gonna like this.”

The first time Sam kisses you, the night after when you come home with bee stung lips, with red marks that creep up your collar, creep up your neck, just like all those years before, when you come home and Sammy’s waiting for you, wide-eyed and worried, you’re so exhausted you just don’t feel like doing this anymore. Sammy and his carefully guarded hands, he doesn’t reach out for you, doesn’t touch you, just sits there, patiently, waiting for you to speak. And you just fucking can’t anymore, you can’t do this, it’s just way too much. You and your cold sweat, sticky, the way your shirt clings to your chest, you’re saying, “Not now, please.”

And Sammy’s just not gonna let this one go, is he? His hardened eyes, they go from worried to pissed in two seconds flat, and you kinda just want to smack that frown off of his face. He says, “Yes, now. You’ve been gone for almost a whole day, Dad’s worried sick, and I finally had to tell him that you were on a case so he’d back off. Do you realize what could have happened to you?” Like you’re still nine goddamned years old.

“No offense, Sam,” your folded arms, you’re just so tired of this. “But I can take care of myself.”

Sammy there, Sam and his angry face, he starts, saying, “Not when,” but stops when he realizes what he’s gonna say. His white teeth biting hard on his lip, biting hard enough to draw blood, and, Jesus, but this has gone far enough. Sammy and his red mouth, he’s just inching himself into territory you’re too tired to face right now, inching himself closer and closer to your fist in his face.

You and your smart mouth, you say, “Not when what, Sam?” You and your raised eyebrow, your crossed arms, you say, “Not when I was kidnapped for six fucking days? Not when I let that man have sex with me, not when I let him touch me like that? I can’t go out now, I can’t have fun, because of something that happened to me eleven years ago, something that we’ve all just conveniently never forgotten about?”

Sammy there, Sam and his soft voice, his whispers, he’s saying, “How can we forget something like that?” His sad face, he’s saying, “How can we just move on?”

The first time Sam kisses you, and, you know, hey, maybe he’s right, maybe you’ve been going about this all the wrong way. You and your agenda, your plan to fuck as many girls as you can to rid yourself of his touch, maybe Sammy’s right about this, maybe you just won’t ever be able to forget. Maybe you just can’t ever move on. Those nights you wake up, those nightmares, those dreams you have, those dreams you can never remember, those screams you can never forget, maybe Sam’s right here, maybe you can never just let it go. The first time Sam kisses you, the first time you let another man touch you since those six days, those six nights, since that dirty basement, maybe you just can’t expect to be fine after all of this. Those bruises, your bee stung lips, swollen and red, your naked chest, maybe you just can’t expect to be perfect after everything he did to you.

Sam and his soft voice, his hand reaching for yours, you don’t jerk back this time, you don’t grit your teeth, Sammy and his fingers stroking your skin, he’s saying, “It’s okay.” Sammy and his face so close to yours, his breath on your cheek, he’s saying, “You’re perfect,” his lips so close to yours, his beautiful brown eyes, he’s saying, “You’re beautiful just the way you are.”

Sammy and his fingers wiping the tears from your face, he’s saying, “Everything’s gonna be alright.”

The second time Sam kisses you, that night, all those years after that dirty basement, all those years after that man, your bee stung lips and all those bruises, it’s not even hard for you to finally give in.


End file.
